Waiting to Exhale
by Siren's Bell
Summary: For every win someone must fail. But there comes a point when we exhale. - Exhale, Whitney Houston. Rated for questionable material.
1. Prologue

**Author's Notes: **I recently started reading a book called _Strange Fits of Passion, _about a woman who is abused by her husband and she ends up murdering him. I thought abuse might be an interesting topic to tackle. Yep. I jumped on the cliche bandwagon. So here it is. My own little take on it. I hope I do it justice.

---

_My Dearest Will,_

_I was told once that there is no such thing as truth. Because there are so many different perspectives and interpretations that 'real truth' becomes lost in translation. _

_I believe I've told you the truth, as clearly as I remember it. There are details which have been forgotten with age or glossed over to preserve your memories. But what you are about to read, is everything that I can clearly remember in the order that I remembered it to occur._

_Please understand, sweetheart, that I never once wanted you to hate him. Your father is nothing more than a man who once thought himself infallible. And he managed to snare a fragile woman with the words she wanted...needed to hear. _

_I tell you this story now, so that perhaps you can understand. Or at the very least know both sides, as I am certain your father has told you his version of events._

_I love you. And I want you to know that nothing, nothing will ever change that. _

_Please read on and be sure you have read it all before you cast judgment on my decision._

_With all my love,_

_Helga_

The letter was laid to rest next to a notebook scribbled full in ink. The pages billowed and the corners were curled. There were signatures and notes scribbled in the margins. He took a deep breath, opening the cover slowly and casting his eyes over the first page before finally reading each word carefully.


	2. Part 1

I suppose the beginning is the best place to start. It was always hard to pinpoint just where my story begins. But, as I sit here thinking about it, I think it's easy to say it started the very day we met. It was a writing seminar I had been invited to attend. Three whole days of sitting in a room with people who aspired to have their written word recognized. I was one of those people, I thought.

He was there too. His father's company was a sponsor, and he came as the representative. Our gazes met during an intermission and he crossed the room in a few short strides. His legs were long. I remember he was dressed in a navy suit with a tie to match. My first thought was how nicely he filled out his suit. He was big. Massive, I think would be a better word to use. He was a foot and a half taller than me. So I had to tilt my head to look him in the eye.

There were other women there. They flocked to him and danced around him in pressed skirts and ivory blouses. I felt out of place and maybe a little embarrassed. Everyone obviously knew who he was. Everyone but me. I was a little bit surprised that he excused himself from the crowd and strolled over to me in such a casual manner, one would think he wore jeans instead of expensive, tailored pants.

His name was Joseph. Joseph Weston. He said it with a friendly grin. Lopsided and charming, I had to admit. When he told me he noticed me writing a lot during the session, I blushed such a deep shade of red, I matched the paper tablecloth on the refreshments table. I could hear him laugh, chuckle deep in his throat and I wanted to change the subject quickly so he wouldn't question the content of my notes. I didn't want him to know that it had little to do with what the speaker was talking about. I told him my name. He seemed more interested in my clothes.

I was dressed rather plainly, you see. I was never much of a fan of skirts and blouses. It was just a trend that carried on from my childhood. So I wore neatly pressed pants with a plain white shirt and a jacket that didn't really match. But I don't think he noticed any of it. No, instead he stared at the necklace that dangled proudly from my neck. I remember bringing my hand up to touch as he questioned me about it.

"That's pretty. Where did you get it?"

"Family heirloom, I guess. My mom gave it to me after I graduated high school."

He nodded and lifted the charm from my neck. The breeze from his hand made me shudder. It was a nice feeling, really. They called us back in and h e smiled at me and told me to go. I did and didn't give this Joseph a second thought.

I must've struck a chord with him, however. After the seminar ended, he caught up with me in the parking lot and asked me if I liked coffee. No, I don't, but you know that, don't you? He insisted, even after I told him I don't drink coffee. He told me they served hot chocolate too. I agreed and he looked pleased with himself. The coffee shop where we went was expensive, much more so than the kiosk where I usually got my hot chocolate and morning paper. He ordered for me and I was given a steaming cup of hot chocolate which was obviously made with milk and cream as opposed to water.

There was also a plate of delicately made pastries. I assumed it was for both of us and I helped myself to one. I stopped mid-bite when I heard him chuckle. "You're bold," he said, "I like that."

I ate the pastry anyway; I was certain that he wouldn't want it back. But I didn't touch another one. It felt as though some unspoken rule had passed between us and I would be punished somehow. We chatted for ages, long after our mugs had been drained and the plate had been reduced to a single pastry. He offered it to me but I declined. I noticed how his brow dropped, as if he was confused as to how I could refuse anything he had to offer me. So I retracted and ate it slowly. He paid too and asked if I would like to see his hotel room. I wanted to say no. But I remembered the expression he had given me in the shop and nodded with fake enthusiasm.

His suite was enormous. My room could fit into it. I was awed to say the least. He shrugged it off, as though it were no big deal. But I suppose he was used to living this way. It was a fact that I had ignored up until I saw him sitting on the edge of the bed with a wine glass; we were alone. I shared my room with another girl I knew in passing from my writing course at the learning center. But here, there were no watchful eyes of a chaperone. I was alone. With a man. I could see my dad frowning in my head, saying "Olga would never do that." This in turn made me frown. He must've noticed, because he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I replied and he offered me a glass of wine. I said no and mentioned that I was underage, in hopes of deterring that telltale lowering of his brow. When he asked how old I was, I replied with a firm nineteen. I was not ashamed of my age, because I was not guilty of the same sins the people in my age bracket were. He was insistent and I gave in, after the fifth time I said no. That was something I did a lot, giving in to him. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I didn't trust myself to drive. I had had almost three glasses, after I promised myself to only have one. He offered his suite to me. He had more than enough space, I remember him telling me. And I guess he was right. But I didn't exactly feel comfortable staying in the room with him. I barely knew him. He offered to sleep on the foldout couch and leave me the bed. It seemed reasonable enough. The foldout couch was in a separate room divided by a door leading to the bedroom. The door had a lock so I agreed.

With him in the other room and the door securely locked behind me, I crawled beneath the blankets and fell asleep almost instantly.

I am not entirely sure how the next set events transpired. But when I woke the next morning, Joseph was there. Beside me. His arm was around my shoulders and my cheek lay on his chest. I didn't even remember opening the door. I must've because it locked from my side. Either way, there we were. My first instinct was to get out. To grab my clothes and leave. But he woke not long after I did and kissed my forehead tenderly and greeted me with a warm 'good morning'. I remember him asking me how I slept and me being lost for words. I mentioned being late for the final session of the seminar and he simply shrugged. "It's a waste of time," he said, "That director is full of hot air. Wouldn't know true talent if it jumped out and bit him on the ass."

I laughed in spite of myself and stood to gather my clothes. "I read your paper, you know. The one you submitted to get your invitation to the seminar."

And with those words, I froze where I stood. "My father wants to publish it in the literary section of the magazine." (Did I mention what his parents did? I suppose I'll bring it up later.) He sauntered up to me, putting his arms around my waist and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. "You're quite the poet, Ms. Pataki." He smiled at me and rested his forehead on mine.

I truly did not know what to say. My poetry is something I usually keep very private. And the fact that this man, this man I barely knew had read them did very little to put me at ease. I didn't like it when my friends insisted on reading the poems, much less a perfect stranger.

I think that was his first strike against me. He had diffused my defenses before I even had the opportunity to prepare them, to put them up. I wasn't sure if I knew how to defend myself from him anymore. He knew it. And he took advantage of it.

---

Our relationship began without much fanfare. After the seminar ended and we returned home, I had thought Joseph would've forgotten me. But he began showing up, in particular at my job. "Just to chat," he explained. It bothered me initially. But eventually, his presence became almost a staple to my day and I often found that I missed him whenever he was absent.

We spent most of our time in my tiny apartment. He found it distasteful but never offered to take me to his home. I don't know why I never bothered to ask. But I think it was another unspoken rule.

It wasn't very long before our relationship became a matter of public opinion. We had dated for four months before we posed for our very first picture. It was for an article in the newspaper (which I clipped and saved in the back of this notebook, if you want to read it.). His father was donating fifty-thousand dollars to a local charity and hosting a charity ball to announce the donation.

I received my invitation by mail. It was personalized by Joseph. I was to wear black. And to wear my hair up, a bun was preferred. He said his father was extremely particular about his public affairs. Any misstep would be met with his father's displeasure. And that was just something you didn't want to experience.

The party was lush and obviously overdone. There were only one hundred guests, to my knowledge. I remembered I asked Joseph why his father had gone so out of his way for only a few people and he shrugged. "That's my father for you. He has to do everything over the top."

I believe it was at this party that I realized Joseph and his father had a rather strained relationship. Joseph was extremely reluctant to introduce me to him and if we were in his presence for more than ten minutes at a time, Joseph would press his hand into my back to indicate his discomfort or irritation and swipe a drink from a passing waiter's tray.

His father was an intimidating man and Joseph was his spitting image. Dark haired and his eyes were sharp, nearly black. His features were proud and I suppose without really meaning to, he looked down at people. It wasn't condescending, I think. It was just the way he was. And I could tell it bothered Joseph.

He took me home after that. He apologized and when I asked why, he explained that he had been _ordered _to invite me to dinner at his parents' home the following night. I wasn't necessarily shocked by the invitation. But Joseph wanted me to refuse. "We can't put it off forever, Joseph." He rejected a nickname. It was Joseph or Mr. Weston.

"Accept it then, Helga. Don't expect me to," he replied curtly. He was angry, I remember. He fixed his dark eyes on me and a shiver trailed its way down my spine. So I waited until the following morning to call and tell his parents that Joseph and I would be joining them for dinner.

I didn't see Joseph again for a full week, until the night of the dinner. He wouldn't speak to me. And that's how I knew that this evening had been fated to fail.


	3. Part 2

We arrived at his father's home at 7:30. Dinner would be served promptly at 8:00. The condo was sparsely decorated and it had an extremely sterile atmosphere. The appliances were stainless steel. The furniture was leather and cold. It looked as though it had just been purchased, though according to his stepmother, it had been bought almost four years prior.

His stepmother, I discovered, was the source of the tension between him and his father. At least that's what he told me. I can't say I believed him. I thought the young woman merely added to it by being just two years older than I and six months younger than Joseph. He called her a gold digger and Joseph's father threatened to disinherit him.

Talk of his mother was rare. She had simply vanish when Joseph was a child and after her was a long line of women who never seemed to stay longer than a month. And the one who did stay just so happened to be Joseph's ex from college. Joseph and his father never discussed it. How exactly does one talk about that sort of thing?

Dinner for the most part was awkward, filled with only brief spurts of conversation that consisted of prying questions and curt replies. Dessert was served and accompanied with silence. That is until the elder Mr. Weston asked, "When do you plan to marry her, Joey?" He inclined his head in my direction.

I paused, my fork poised at my open mouth. I could see Joseph tense. He never liked being called Joey. And I thought if he could murder with just a glare, his father would be dead ten times over. "Not to be too forward, sir," I said, lowering my fork, "But Joseph and I barely know each other."

"Bah." The old man waved his hand dismissively at me. "It's always feelings with you women. Love is insignificant when you have a reputation to maintain."

I blinked at his words and chanced a glance at his wife to gauge her reaction. But she continued to eat, as though her husband had not said a word. I put my fork down and pushed my plate away. What appetite I did have was thoroughly ruined.

He stood and gave Joseph an intense glare. "Marry her. Soon. Or leave her be. I'm sick of reading your name in the gossip column. It's time to grow up, Joey. And do something right for a change." And without even a good night, he turned and left the room.

His wife nodded to us, "I should go speak to him."

I took the cue and gently brushed my fingers along Joseph's arm, "We should be going anyway."

He slid his chair back and shook my hand off of his arm. "We never should have come. Let's go, Helga."

I got up and followed him. His stride was long and brisk which made keeping up with him difficult. He stopped at his car and laid his hand on the door. I stood next to the passenger's door and watched him. His shoulders slouched and looked at me. "He won't drop the subject, until we do what he wants."

I was silent, unsure of where he was going with this. "So. Wanna get married?"

I blinked. "Married?"

He smiled, "Did you really think I was going to let you go? I was going to ask you eventually. So why not now?"

"But your father…" And he scoffed.

"That man doesn't mean anything me. But I still want to marry you, Helga. I love you."

It felt as though something had drained the air from my lungs and I nodded. I don't know what compelled me to agree. Maybe I agreed because I really thought that he loved me. Or maybe I did because I thought I had to. It's something I still think about today.

---

We were married three weeks after that dinner. Joseph knew someone at the courthouse who agreed to marry us without alerting the media. We were dressed casually because we would be going to my parents home soon after. They didn't know Joseph and I were dating until Dad saw our picture in some gossip magazine that branded Joseph a cheater and me the other woman.

The picture of us had been inset with the photo of a woman I had never met. As a matter of fact, this so called jilted lover didn't even exist. Dad didn't seem to care. He demanded to meet Joseph and judge for himself.

And after proclaiming that Olga would never do this, I ended the call. I dreaded Joseph meeting my family and prayed that Olga would not be visiting.

My prayer went unanswered.

The evening went on without a hitch, surprisingly enough. Mom made an effort to actually look interested in the conversation. Dad kept his snide remarks about me and my life to a minimum. And Olga managed to not talk about herself. I thought it would end with minimal damage, when dad decided to question us about the article. Joseph's grip on my hand was crushing and I gritted my teeth to keep from grimacing visibly.

"I told you, _Bob_, none of that is true. The woman isn't even real."

He waved his hand at me to shush me and he directed his attention to Joseph. "Look, boy, I don't know who you think you are, but you won't embarrass my kid. Olga…"

"Helga, Dad," I corrected.

"Right, Helga will be nobody's floozy."

Josephs grip was unrelenting. "Helga is my wife. How dare you suggest I would ever cheat on her."

"It felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. Dad was speechless. His gaze fell on me and mom was the one to break the silence. "Helga, you told us he was your boyfriend."

"He was. At the time we had that conversation." So technically it wasn't a lie. "We kept the wedding a secret for obvious reasons." And I shot a glare at Dad.

This did little to ease the look in my mother's eyes. She was hurt and I felt guilty. My relationship with her wasn't the greatest, but at least we talked on a regular basis. Dad? That was the first time we had spoken in two months. We never could get along for more than ten minutes at a time. And the fact that I had married without his knowledge (read: consent) wasn't making it better.

"Olga would never have done this." He frowned at me before getting up and leaving the room. I wondered if he would ever realize I had built up an immunity to those words. I would never be as great as his precious Olga. I had come to accept that.

Joseph's grip had eased finally and I wiggled my fingers. They still throbbed. "I'm sorry, Mom," I said.

She smiled weakly at me, "You're an adult, Helga. Nothing to be sorry for." She stood and hugged me. But her arms were stiff. "Congratulations, honey."

Joseph didn't react at all when Mom welcomed him to the family. An awkward silence fell and he stood. "We should go, Helga. It's getting late."

I nodded. Things were tense enough. We didn't want to make it worse by prolonging our visit. At least I didn't."

I kissed my mother and hugged my sister, who told me to call her if I ever needed anything. But I knew what that meant. It was Olga-talk for "Call so I can be nosy." I would never be in the mood to have Olga declare how much better her life was than mine. So I had no real intention of ever calling her. Even though I told her I would. Oh well, it wasn't the first time I had lied to Olga.

As a matter of fact, I thought it would be best if I avoided my whole family for a while. At least until they had gotten used to the idea of me and Joseph.

The car ride home was largely silent. Joseph stared straight ahead and I sat with my hands folded in my lap. "I don't want to go back there," he said finally.

I glanced at him and sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Your dad's an idiot."

I frowned. Yes that was true, but I didn't want other people saying it. "You were the one who blurted out we were married. I was handling it."

"Like hell you were!" He glanced at me before tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

I turned my head away from him and frowned. This wasn't exactly how I was expecting to spend my wedding night. "I don't want to fight with you about this," I said.

"Then stop being difficult. The decision is final. We will not be going to see them again."

"When you become my boss, then I'll listen to you."

I heard the tires screech as Joseph jarringly pressed his foot against the break. He shoved me and my head struck the glass. Hard. I don't remember much of the conversation immediately after. I just remember being angry. I wanted to hit him. No one had _ever _hit me before. Not without losing a couple of teeth in the process. And I wasn't going to make an exception for Joseph. If he wanted to play rough, fine. But he didn't realize just who he was dealing with.

Or...or was it the other way around?


End file.
